Christmas Comes to Dickens

by Nancy Fraser

“Not just you, Son, but Wil-Bar as well. You’d said it would take a ‘miracle’ to save our factory.” Nodding toward Millie, he added, “You got one when a small child opened our eyes to what was really important. Even a princess needs her prince, or a sister—a family. And friends.”

  Rick nodded. “And an iconic symbol like a toy train shouldn’t be confined to one small area but, rather, step out and make a place for himself elsewhere.”

  “Exactly,” his dad agreed. “If there’s one thing I’ve realized since meeting Cassidy and Millie it’s that there’s still magic in this world. And a chance for a miracle. In this case, I think we can agree, it’s Millie’s awesome miracle.”

  Rick slipped his hand into his pocket and fingered the velvet box resting there. “Are you sure about Mom’s ring?” he asked.

  His dad nodded. “It’s what she always intended. It was her grandmother’s, her mother’s, hers, and now it’s yours to give to the woman you’ve fallen in love with.” William paused, then added, “Had there been a sister to inherit it, you’d have been forced to buy one on your own dime. Be grateful you’re an only child.”

  Rick glanced across the room to where Millie, Cassidy and Frances were comparing the two Holiday Princess dolls. “Hopefully, she’ll say yes, and we can make sure Millie doesn’t end up an only child as well.”

  “The pitter patter of little feet would put some life back into this huge, old house,” William agreed. “Especially while I’m still spry enough to enjoy it.”

  His father’s pat on the back propelled Rick forward. With each step he took, his heartrate gathered speed, and his throat filled with imagined dust.

  “Hey ladies,” he said when he’d reached where they were huddled around the tree.

  Cassidy raised her head and graced him with her beautiful smile.

  “Hey back at ya. Millie and I were admiring our dolls and trying to decide where we’ll keep them. We’re torn between my bedroom or putting up a shelf above her dollhouse. Millie insists they’re sisters and should stay together.”

  Rick shot a quick look in Millie’s direction and winked. The little girl who’d stolen his heart nearly as quickly as her mother, nodded and smiled broadly.

  “I...” he began, swallowing back the worst of his jitters. “I seem to have forgotten one last gift.”

  Cassidy leaned forward, scanning the ornate skirt beneath the tree. “I don’t see anything.”

  He drew the deep breath he hoped would get him through his well-rehearsed speech, and he lowered himself to one knee. Off to the side, Frances gasped softly, his father and Millie beamed.

  Pulling the velvet box from his pocket, he flipped open the lid and asked, “Cassidy Kean, I’m pretty sure I fell in love with you that first day in front of the elevator at Wil-Bar, and with Millie during coffee at Morty’s. You’re the woman I’ve waited for my entire adult life. Will you marry me?”

  She glanced down at the box in his hand and then back up at his face, their gazes locking and holding. Her chocolate eyes filled with tears, and Rick held his breath for what seemed like an eternity.

  “Yes, of course,” she responded.

  Rick’s breath came out on a whoosh, his heart started beating again, and he grinned. “That was the longest ten seconds of my life.”

  Millie shot off the couch and threw her arms around her mother’s neck. “I told him you’d say ‘yes’ when he asked for my...uh...for my—”

  “Blessing,” Rick finished for her. “I couldn’t very well ask for your hand if Millie wasn’t okay with it.”

  Cassidy ruffled Millie’s soft curls. “I’m glad you approved.”

  “Oh yes,” Millie said, her voice nearly cracking with excitement. “Now we can live here, and I can ride Max every day, and that nice man in the kitchen can cook for us and make me my new favorite dessert, sweet potato pie. And Frances can come to visit, especially in the summer so we can swim, and...” Millie’s voice trailed off as both Frances and his father drew her away, giving them a moment of much needed privacy.

  “The ring is beautiful,” she commented as he slid it on her finger.

  “It was my mom’s. It belonged to her mother and grandmother before that.”

  Cassidy’s hand trembled in his grasp. “I don’t know what to say—other than I love you, too.”

  He leaned forward and gave her a kiss, and then another, before pulling back to meet her warm gaze. “You said the only word I needed to hear when you said ‘yes’.”

  Barrett House

  Eighteen Months Later

  CASSIDY AND RICK STOOD arm-in-arm in the doorway, shamelessly eavesdropping on Millie’s one-sided conversation.

  “I thought I should tell you about this,” Millie said, holding up the decorated, although faded, craft stick she carried with her everywhere. “It’s how you got here.”

  She wiggled the stick between her fingers and continued. “It’s a wish-stick and it’s filled with magic. You can make three wishes and, if you’re good, they may come true. I must have been really good because all of mine came true. Sort of.”

  They shared a quick glance, an unspoken question to Millie’s ‘sort of’ tag.

  Millie stared down at the wish-stick and explained. “My first wish was for a pony. Momma says that’s all I ever ask for, but I’m pretty sure she’s wrong. Then, when I got Max for Christmas, it didn’t matter because I was the happiest girl ever.” She held up her hand and ticked off one finger. “My second wish was for Rick to ask my momma to marry him, so she’d have someone to love her and me, and so he could become my dad. When he told me that was what he wanted too, I knew the wish-stick really, really worked.”

  Millie ticked off a second finger and continued. “I think I may have broken my wish-stick on the first two wishes though, because my third wish was for a baby sister.” Standing on her tiptoes, Millie peaked into her newborn brother’s crib, adding, “but, I guess you’ll have to do until the next time.”

  “Next time?” Rick whispered.

  Cassidy smiled and released a contented sigh. Pressing a kiss to her husband’s cheek, she whispered back, “Or, the time after that.”

  The End

  A Note From Nancy Fraser

  I’VE HAD SO MUCH FUN helping create the wonderful New England town of Dickens. It’s been a pleasure working with the other nine authors in this anthology.

  The holiday season, from Thanksgiving through the new year, has always been special to me, and to my family. My goal with this story was to share some of that joy with others.

  I hope you enjoyed reading Millie’s Awesome Holiday Miracle as much as I enjoyed writing it.

  I look forward to the possibility of coming back to Dickens for more adventures in the near future and hope you’ll also come along for the ride!

  Wishing you a safe, happy, and healthy holiday season and a bright and joyous New Year! ~ Nancy

  About Nancy Fraser

  NANCY FRASER—Jumping Across Romance Genres with Gleeful Abandon—is a Top 100 and Award-Winning author who can’t seem to decide which romance genre suits her best. So, she writes them all.

  Like most authors, Nancy began writing at an early age, usually on the walls and with crayons or, heaven forbid, permanent markers. Her love of writing often made her the English teacher’s pet which, of course, resulted in a whole lot of teasing. Still, it was worth it.

  Published in multiple genres, Nancy actively writes for two publishers, and recently threw her hat into the self-publishing ring. She has published over thirty-five books in full-length, novella, and short format.

  When not writing (which is almost never), Nancy dotes on her five wonderful grandchildren and looks forward to traveling and reading when time permits. Nancy lives in Atlantic Canada where she enjoys the relaxed pace and colorful people.

  Web and Social Media Links

  Website ~ Goodreads

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  Miracle at Holly Hill Inn

  Maddie James

  Top 100 Best Selling Author

  Miracle at Holly Hill Inn

  Sometimes all we need is to believe.

  ARIANA ANGELO’S BLOG specializes in “all things Christmas, all year long.” While traveling New England in search of the perfect Christmas village, she lands in Dickens amid the town’s Christmas festivities—and a snowstorm. She’s delighted and giddy with holiday cheer and can literally feel the magic of the season in her bones.

  Matt Matthews—owner of the century-old Dickens Hardware—dislikes the season, despite all the Christmastime holiday hoopla. He’s all about regular business, not a holiday ornament or tree trimming bauble to be found in his store. The holiday triggers unwanted memories, so he avoids the festivities—and the people—as much as possible.

  While she set out to find the perfect Christmas village, Ariana instead finds the town Scrooge. Will two days snowbound together at the historic Holly Hill Inn bring them closer together on their holiday differences, or send them each on their merry way?

  Chapter 1

  EVEN THE TREES SPARKLE.

  Ariana Angelo pushed open her car door and stepped out onto snow-covered pavement. In awe, she scanned her surroundings to take in the quaint New England Main Street lined with Victorian shopfronts—each one decorated to storybook perfection with greenery and red bows, a hefty portion of tinsel and holly, and of course, snow.

  The snow was real. None of that fake stuff like back home.

  Closing the car door, she moved toward the sidewalk, twirling once, maybe twice, still perusing the most precious Christmas village scene she’d ever before encountered—and that was saying a lot. Christmas was her business, her world—and this town just might be Christmas perfection. She was so glad she’d come.

  Stifling the urge to lift her face to the sky and catch a drifting fluffy snowflake on her tongue, she sighed with happiness, eager explore.

  Down the street sat the gazebo. She recognized it from pictures she’d seen of the town. It, too, was draped in greenery and ribbons, looking somewhat like a confection sitting atop some sort of pretty Christmas cake—at least one she might bake. It appeared the gazebo was situated within the town square. Beside it was a statue sporting a red scarf, billowing in the brisk breeze. Stepping onto the snow-swept sidewalk, she kept an eye on the structure and wandered a few steps in that direction.

  There.

  Off to the side of the gazebo stood the Christmas tree, proudly displaying gold and silver baubles, ornaments of all colors, and more ribbons—all peeking through fresh snow. The annual Dickens Christmas tree lighting was earlier in the month, and she was sorry she’d missed it—but there was no denying the tree’s magnificence.

  And, oh? Is that a carousel?

  Her insides twittered with glee, bubbling up so rapidly she could barely contain it. She might have let out a quick little giggle.

  Pausing her stroll, she spied a colorful sign hanging in the shop window to her right. Her gaze traveled over the shopfront—Leslie’s Bakes & More—and her tummy started to rumble. Another cup of coffee soon, and perhaps a pastry, would be nice.

  Her gaze landed on the red and green sign, again. Holiday Lighting Event at Holly Hill Inn, Thursday Evening, December 23rd. With a quick look to the calendar on her digital watch, she smiled. Yes. Today was Wednesday, so the lighting event at the inn was tomorrow—on the eve of Christmas Eve, or Christmas Eve Eve, as she liked to say. Why not stretch out the holiday as long as possible?

  Smiling, and immensely happy she’d braved the snowstorm—even against her family’s warnings—she felt silly with holiday cheer. The weather had been dicey the day before, delaying her trip into historic Dickens. While she didn’t mind getting stuck an extra night at the small New England B&B she’d booked about thirty miles down the road, she was glad the storm had let up enough so she could get to Dickens.

  And bonus! Due to a cancelation and a matter of happenstance, she had secured a reservation for three nights at the popular Holly Hill Inn, but she was in no hurry to get there. Too much to explore first. Besides, she couldn’t check in until late afternoon—so, she had most of the daylight hours left to discover the magic of Dickens at Christmastime.

  Dickens just might be the small-town Christmas village of her dreams. She couldn’t wait to get pictures and write about it. Her blog readers were going to be so excited.

  Reaching into her bag, she pulled out her camera, adjusted the lens, and began walking. As if by magic, the town suddenly teemed with shoppers, milling in and out of the shops, chatting on the sidewalks, and calling out holiday greetings.

  Must be getting final shopping done before this storm hits again.

  Ariana smiled, dizzy with Christmas excitement and filled with the holiday spirit. She snapped pictures, chatted with the townsfolk, and gleefully made her way up Main Street, around the square, and down the other side.

  Her heart was happy.

  It was Christmas.

  Nothing could spoil her mood. Absolutely nothing.

  MATT MATHEWS PULLED the bottom of his sweater sleeve over the heel of his palm and rubbed out the smudges his breath had just made on the old windowpane. Peering out into the street—perusing the local shoppers and visiting tourists—he sighed. His breath, once again, fogged the glass, so he took one more swipe at it and then turned away.

  How many more days until Christmas was over? Too many.

  Heading back to his cubby-hole refuge behind the old wooden countertop, tucked into the back of the hardware store, he traveled the center aisle between time-worn, nearly ceiling-high, wooden shelves which housed everything from plumbing and electrical supplies, to household cleaners and associated paraphernalia, some small appliances like electric can openers and hand-held mixers, and tools. Lots of tools.

  And where there were tools, there were also items that went along with tools—like fence wire, and tape measures, and replacement doorknobs, and cabinet pulls, and such.

  Instead of shelves in those areas, there were small wooden drawers—carefully catalogued by his Uncle Wilbur years ago—where one could select nails or screws or bolts or washers, or an assortment of those and other items that a carpenter, or perhaps a crafty person might need.

  Yes. Dickens Hardware held all that and more. His family had always strived to provide the town with what they needed, so variety was the mainstay.

  What one wouldn’t find at Dickens Hardware, however—a store that had been in his family for over a hundred years—was anything to do with Christmas. No tinsel. No trees. No ornaments, holly, wrapping paper, wreaths, or mistletoe.

  Ever.

  Well, not ever. His mother had stocked quite a bit of holiday cheer and such in the past. But Matt? No. He’d done away with all that years ago.

  Christmas was not his thing. It was not his busy season. People weren’t shopping for hammers or toilet plungers in December. They were out for tinsel and wreaths. And truth be known, he’d probably be better off next year to close the store the entire month of December and go someplace warm for a while—someplace where the entire town didn’t revel in the idea of the holiday, or focus eleven months of the year getting ready for it.

  Yes. That is a good idea. Someplace warm.

  Matt settled himself on the stool behind the counter, crossed his arms over his chest, and peered out over the store. At some point soon, he should think about walking down the street to grab some lunch—but did he really want to brave the crowd?

  Maybe he’d just close the store early and go home. He could always open a can of soup. “Merry Christmas to me.”

  ARIANA IMPATIENTLY peeked around the line in front of her at Leslie’s Bakes & More, trying to get a glimpse at the counter to see what kind of cookies were hiding in front of a gentleman standing there waiting for his sandwich. She tapped her foot, inspecting the quaint interior of the business. Being patient was not her strong suit, so waiting in line for anything wa
s always a challenge. In the meantime, she’d simply busy herself by perusing the Christmas decorations and the people, the confections and pastries, and the deli menu in the small bakery-slash-sandwich shop.

  Which was not a bad idea, she surmised, to combine the two types of establishments. The bakery could cater to the breakfast crowd with pastries and coffee earlier in the day, then later, sandwiches and cookies for the lunch crowd. And pie.

  Oh, there was pie. She stretched her neck and took a tiny step to her right to ogle the pie case around the corner from the counter.

  Leaning more to her right, she watched the gentleman hiding the cookies step away—were those Snickerdoodles?—and the line moved forward.

  She took a half-step—but someone darted in front of her, taking her spot in line.

  Standing there for a moment, a little befuddled to be perfectly honest, she decided to make the best of it.

  “Excuse me.” She tapped the man’s shoulder. “I’m sure you didn’t realize you cut in front of me. I’ve been standing here for a while. But if you are in a hurry, I’m happy to let you go first. Besides, it’s Christmas.” She smiled.

  He turned and looked at her, mumbled something under his breath, and didn’t smile back. “You weren’t in line.”

  “Oh, but I was. Am.” Her feet planted, she peered back, not about to move.

  He stared back at her with his knit cap pulled down low over his forehead, a shock of brown hair poking out, and his arms crossed tightly over his coat at his chest. “I, also, have been standing in line. You, it appeared, had stepped away and were gawking.”

  Gawking? “I beg your pardon?”

  “Gawking,” he replied. “You know, gallerwaggling about. Listlessly wandering. You didn’t appear to be standing in line. I thought you were, basically, aimlessly perusing.”

  Ariana squinted, quickly studying the man. He wasn’t an old man. He was, perhaps, a couple of years older than her—but his grumpiness gave off an illusion of being much older—and crotchety. Such a shame. He actually had nice features—high cheekbones, a firm chin, and a scruffy five o’clock shadow that was maybe two days overdue.